A Warrior No More
by HMRoberts
Summary: ONE-SHOT What if nobody really knew what happened on the Astronomy tower that night? What if the swan dive was really just a swan song to allow an old, sick man to retire into obscurity and anonymity for the remainder of his life? AU, EWE


Some more firewhiskey, yes, that was what was wanted.

Pouring another three fingers-worth into the cut crystal tumbler, he sighed and leaned back against the aged and cracked leather of the armchair, the low flames in the grate barely illuminating anything beyond more than a few feet, the rest of the room shrouded in deep shadow.

He rather liked it that way.

A deep sip of the amber booze slipped down his throat, burningly, to join its brothers from earlier in the evening.

He'd never had to do anything this hard before. The events of earlier that night etched into his mind with a razor's edge clarity, every moment forever blazoned in memory.

How could he have done such a thing? No matter why he had, just fact that he had done so was enough to send even the sanest of men spare. His sanity, however, had been sorely tested of late!

He recalled the conversation well; an old, dodgy wizard asking, no, ordering the younger to kill the elder. A kindness the old man had said. "But what of my soul, Albus?" had been the reply.

And now? The deed was done at last and here he sat, finally out and away from the crushing burdens that had weighed upon him more and more over the intervening years.

But, it had had to stop. No one could ever know to what lengths he had gone to keep abreast of each new development, each move and countermove looked at from all possible angles before acting in this devilish game of cat-and-mouse.

But he'd never quite envisioned this scenario, at least, not until the past few weeks.

None save he alone knew where this place was and as the intrinsic nature of the ancient and new wards upon this cottage didn't allow for Apparation, he was content; for the moment at least, that the visage so many caricatured to be himself, as himself, had now fallen away, like the veneer on a rotting piece of furniture. Terrifying it would be if any were to discover the real him beneath the persona. Few had ever seen anything more than glimpses.

He never thought he'd live through this night, despite all of the precautions he'd so carefully put in place to ensure just that. His surviving was more a matter of chance than anything, once bedlam had been unleashed inside of Hogwarts by the Death Eaters. Yet, as he'd predicted, young Malfoy had been unable to complete his task beyond merely providing a means of entré to the hideously garbed followers of Voldemort.

Of that he was glad. Some good had come of his actions, anyhow. The boy may be an arrogant git, but his soul was still intact.

But, as so many before it, this phase, too, was now at an end; as the tired eyes that felt as if rolled in sand, could attest as they slowly began to droop under the combined influence of the alcohol, the post crisis adrenaline-drop and the sheer fatigue brought on by days, weeks, months and even years of almost constant tension.

Done. Over with.

He knew that things had to be this way, that the greater good called for this sacrifice.

But Albus Dumbledore had no idea what to do with himself now that he'd taken himself out of the picture with the help of a naive boy, his most trusted ally and an expertly crafted golem and Fawkes, as well.

The hardest part had been bidding his beloved companion and familar phoenix farewell, as Fawkes next burning would be his last and an egg would form from the ashes, then hatch into a brand-new phoenix chick.

The final pieces had been carefully placed on the chessboard and the gambit was played. Now it only remained to see which side would triumph in the end.

But the old man in his hidden Welsh cottage was well out of the game he, himself, had set in motion.

Albus Dumbledore was gone. Forever. No turning back. No matter how things turned out - he was old, tired and too heartsick to remain within the confining bosom of wizarding society. His remaining years would go down in obscurity with none the wiser that Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore yet lived in the persona of the humble, now retired, herb-gardener, Brian Wolff.

He prayed his toil and sacrifices would be enough to ensure victory to the Light, but there were never any guarantees, were there?

Lifting his glass to salute the ones he'd left behind to continue the fight, he took a deep swallow, draining the glass and setting it on the small table beside him. Sighing, Alb...no, Brian! stood and silently prayed,

"May the best side win."


End file.
